


Reichenbach AU

by Theluminousfisheffect



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Reichenbach AU, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-07-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 04:04:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1926042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theluminousfisheffect/pseuds/Theluminousfisheffect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock jumped from the top of Bart's, he had everything planned.  But something doesn't go according to his plan and he kills himself accidentally.  Now he has to try to explain everything to John to ease his friend's grief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The last thing Sherlock remembered was the phone call. Standing on the roof of St. Bart's staring down at the crowded pavement beneath him. He could feel the cold wind whipping his hair and his coat as he stared down into the dismal, grey abyss of the city streets. And John standing below watching, utterly horrified.

Then "Goodbye, John," and John's final protests.

"No. Don't. No. SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock had spread his arms and he had fallen. The air rushed past his face, making it difficult to breathe or even to see. His stomach swirled and his heart raced as he plummeted towards the ground. He could hear nothing over the roar of the wind in his ears and then suddenly it was silent.

He lay immobile, waiting for the homeless network to take him away. He had to remain completely still. His head was pounding which made it harder to stay motionless but he did. Because if he wasn't dead then his friends would be and he couldn't allow that.

Sherlock felt a pair of hands on his shoulders and a voice that seemed strangely distant calling him. "Sherlock."

He opened his eyes, expecting to see Molly or one of the homeless network. Instead, he was blinded by an intense white light, one that made his screaming headache even worse.

"Get that out of my face," he growled, squinting and using his arm to shield his eyes.

The light dimmed enough for him to see and Sherlock put his arm back down at his side, almost immediately regretting it. He wasn't in the morgue.  
He was still standing in the street below the hospital. Sherlock's heart sank and he swallowed hard. His mouth dried and he felt queasy. What was he doing here? Who had let this happen? Now John and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade were all going to be murdered. All his plans fell about him as he watched the homeless network mill around the street.

Sherlock could feel his blood boiling. His jaw clenched and he ground his teeth together. He was furious, ready to kill whichever idiot had allowed this to happen.

He turned, poised and ready to roar at the nearest person, until he heard John's voice.

"Please, let me just - . Jesus, no. God, no."

He could hear the frantic plea in his friend's voice and the soul-crushing despair. What had John seen that had him so upset? Was it the sniper?

Sherlock whirled around and looked frantically to John, who was on his knees in the middle of a crowd, his hands covered in blood.

Sherlock felt a chill run through his veins and a shiver crept agonisingly slowly over his spine. John had been shot.

"John!" Sherlock yelled at the top of his lungs, pushing through the crowd towards him. "JOHN!"

Every step seemed to last an eternity to him as he raced towards his friend. John's face had crumpled into an expression full of pain and a lump was forming in Sherlock's throat which he worked hard to swallow. He could feel his chest constricting as he reached John.

He threw himself to his knees beside John and grabbed his shoulders. "John! John, look at me. Where did it hit you? Where are you bleeding from?" Sherlock asked frantically, shaking the doctor's shoulders for an answer but he could tell from the glazed look in his hazel eyes that John's focus was being dragged far away. Sherlock searched John's clothes with his eyes, looking for the revealing blood stains, but there only seemed to be blood on John's hands.

He heard an ambulance siren wail behind them and sighed thankfully.

"It's okay, John. They'll help you. They will," Sherlock said determinedly, still holding John's shoulders. John only groaned in anguish.

"Over here!" Sherlock shouted over the crowd to the paramedics. "This way!"

But to his surprise, they pushed into the middle of the crowd, ignoring John who was still making distressed moans.

Sherlock stood up and glared murderously at the paramedics. "Where are you idiots going?" he snapped. "He's over here!" But everyone seemed to be ignoring him.

The paramedics were bent over someone else who was lying on the ground in a pool of crimson blood. Sherlock blinked in surprise and then glanced back to John who was now staring blankly into the distance, his eyes glazed over as he sat in stony silence.

"If it wasn't John," he thought to himself, "Then who?"

He craned his neck to see past the paramedics and his mouth fell open as he caught a glimpse of the body.

It was him.

There he was, lying on the pavement, face splattered in blood, blue eyes cold and lifeless, no sign of a pulse or a breath. He watched as they lifted his limp body onto a gurney and took it away in the ambulance.

Sherlock stayed where he was, frozen, feet glued to the ground where he stood. His breathing became heavier and he blinked rapidly as he watched uncomprehendingly.

How could that be him? He was standing right here. He was fine. He hadn't really been going to jump. No, he had a plan. He was going to trick Moriarty, save his friends, even return one day when he was sure Moriarty's crime network was gone.

"John," he whispered, breaking the trance that had a hold on him. "John!" Sherlock span around and grabbed the doctor by the shoulders, shaking him. "John! What's happening? Who was that?" he asked manically. The doctor seemed completely unaware of his presence.

"John!" Sherlock tried again, becoming more and more terrified with every failed attempt. "Answer me!"

But John didn't flinch.

Sherlock stood up, his head swirling with doubt and disbelief. This couldn't be happening. There had to be another explanation. He watched as the homeless network scurried about the street, all seemingly unaware of his presence. Some people were crying, huddling together in comfort, seeking the consolation of another person. Some were just staring at the pool of scarlet splatted across the pavement in a shocked awe. But no one was worried that Sherlock was standing there. Probably because none of them could see him.

He was panting now as his breathing became heavier and his hands trembled as it dawned on him what had happened. His plan hadn't worked. Something had gone terribly wrong and the homeless network hadn't stopped him. Gravity had pulled him down and smashed him against the hard concrete pavement, crushing his skull, piercing his brain and…killing him.

That was his blood on the pavement, his blood on John's hands. That body on the gurney had been his body and this was now the site of his suicide, but no longer a fake one. He had really killed himself. Sherlock Holmes was really dead.

Sherlock dropped to his knees as they became too weak to support his body and the world around him faded away, all the sights and sounds melding together into one sickening, overwhelming blur of horror. His breathing was laboured and his hands shook as tears gathered in his eyes, which he blinked back stubbornly, refusing to let them fall. He was dead. He had died. He had fallen from the building and hit the pavement below, ending his own life as quickly as someone blowing out the flame on a candle.

And John – all those things he had told him, all those lies about being a fake and inventing Moriarty – they were only supposed to be temporary. He was going to come back when Moriarty's web had been untangled and right those wrongs, explain to John that Moriarty had to be believed to give his plan a chance. Now he could never tell John and he would forever believe that Sherlock was a fake. That thought made Sherlock feel ill.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly and buried his face into his hands. What was he going to do now?

Sherlock jumped as he felt a hand placed comfortingly on his shoulder. He gasped lightly, hoping against all odds that John had noticed him and that he wasn't dead. He peered up at a man who was well over six feet tall with light, sandy blonde hair and shockingly piercing green eyes, like someone had set two emeralds into his head. The man smiled politely down at Sherlock and he somehow seemed familiar. He emanated power and his eyes invited you in to confidence, rather than a demanding glare of some who have power. Sherlock stared blankly at the man, his breathing slowing and his heart rate calming just by looking at him. It was like the man radiated calm; it rolled off him in gentle waves which lulled Sherlock into a sense of safety and serenity.

"Sherlock Holmes," the man spoke quietly but there was tone of power in his very voice. It was soft but firm and deep, like satin with a gravelly undertone.

"Yes," Sherlock said, almost unaware that he was speaking at all, as if he was speaking in a dream.

"I am your guardian angel," the man continued. "I am here to guide you through to the next world," he explained, smiling comfortingly at Sherlock.

"But – but I can't go yet," Sherlock stuttered, suddenly finding it extremely difficult to disagree with this man.

The man's brow furrowed slightly and he looked at Sherlock in confusion.

"Why not? Why not come with me and be free from this mortal coil?" he asked.

"Because –"Sherlock paused, finding that calling upon any valid reason to stay here was almost impossible. It was like something in his very core was tugging at him, pulling him towards the angel and towards the next life, promising that it would much better, so much more than anything left on earth could offer him. Paradise was waiting just on the other side and yet, something was keeping him here, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember what it was.

He looked around and saw John standing stoically at the edge of the pavement, gazing blankly at the pool of blood on the ground and he remembered.  
"Because I'm not ready yet. I have to tell John, explain everything to him – how to take down Moriarty's crime ring, and that I'm not a fake and mostly that this is all a mistake. I'm not supposed to be dead but I have to tell him what happened and why I did it. I can't leave him wondering like this for the rest of his life," Sherlock said as he watched John.

The angel smiled at Sherlock, pleased with his answer. "You're right," he agreed. "I just needed to make sure that you knew why you were staying," he patted Sherlock's shoulder. "When you have finished, I will come back to help you again. Farewell, Sherlock."

The angel rolled his shoulders back and huge, majestic wings sprouted from his shoulder blades. Sherlock could make out tiny individual white feathers, each tipped with a shimmering gold that looked like a pool of water reflecting the last golden rays of sunset. The angel launched himself into the air and beat his powerful wings, disappearing into city gloom.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock stood among the few mourners all dressed in black, watching his own memorial service. It felt surreal as the coffin was carried in and placed before the altar. It was even worse when Mrs Hudson began weeping uncontrollably, burying her head in John's shoulder. Sherlock had to turn away from her.

He watched apathetically as his few friends and Mycroft and fans of his and people whom he had solved cases for got up and spoke about him and his life. But the worst was when John got up to speak. He limped up to the altar, leaning heavily on his cane and all Sherlock could do was gaze on as John winced in pain.

He could hear the pain in John's voice as he spoke; his voice cracking but John soldiered on through. The tiny tremble in his voice was like a knife twisting in Sherlock's stomach.

John paused as he swallowed back tears and tried to remain composed.

"I know what all the newspapers are saying and that most of the world thinks that Sherlock Holmes was a fake. But I knew him; I was his friend and I know that that is all lies. He was a genius but he was much more than that. Sherlock once told me that I shouldn't make people into heroes because heroes don't exist, and he said himself that if they did he wouldn't be one of them. But he was wrong. Sherlock Holmes was a hero and I still believe in him. I believe in Sherlock Holmes."

The memorial service continued and Sherlock watched on as they carried the coffin outside and buried it beneath the soil. He watched as they prayed for his soul and he watched as slowly the mourners trailed away from his grave. He stood there, reading his own epitaph which simply said 'Sherlock Holmes' in gold lettering on the smooth black marble headstone.

He sighed and turned his back on it, wondering just exactly how he was going to tell John all of this.


	3. Chapter 3

A few days later, Mrs Hudson and John were returning to the grave with more flowers for it. They stood together, just talking, Mrs Hudson holding John's arm comfortingly as they stared at Sherlock's grave. Then tears sprang into Mrs Hudson's eyes and she left John alone.

Sherlock stood by and watched John talking to his dead body. He heard every word that the doctor said and was amazed by just how much faith John still had in him.

"Oh and please, there's just one more thing, one more thing; one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be dead."

"I wasn't supposed to be, John," Sherlock muttered from where he stood.

Sherlock stared helplessly as John tried to hold himself together and fight off a complete breakdown in the graveyard. He had to tell John. There had to be something that he could do. Sherlock's problem was trying to communicate to John when John apparently couldn't see him. He hadn't noticed Sherlock at the scene when he was shouting in his face, he hadn't noticed Sherlock at the memorial service, and he hadn't noticed Sherlock standing twenty feet away from his own grave.

He didn't exactly know how, but Sherlock was determined that he was going to tell John everything. One way or another, he was going to ease his friend's suffering. He swore to himself in that graveyard that he was going to explain it all to John, no matter how long it took him.

So as John turned and walked back to the black cab with Mrs Hudson, Sherlock's mind began to form a plan. Only he hoped this one would actually work.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock walked back through the streets of London, following John to his new flat. He still hadn't gone near 221B since Sherlock's death. Sherlock, however, had visited it several times over the last few days. It was the one place left in his life that remained almost entirely the same. All his things were still there, even if Mrs Hudson had packed them into boxes. Sherlock had even found that he could lift the lid of the boxes and take things back out. He had fallen back into his old habit of talking to the skull, just to stop himself from going completely insane. He could sit in his own chair and if he closed his eyes, it almost, almost, felt like life had continued and that it was just another normal day in Baker Street. In fact, the only thing that was missing from 221B was John.

When Sherlock arrived at John's flat, John was already sitting in his wooden chair, staring blankly into space. Sherlock watched him for a few minutes, calling his name, tapping his shoulder but he got no reaction. He sighed. Time for plan B.

Sherlock got up and walked across the bare flat. He stopped at the desk with John's laptop sitting on top of it and reached for a book on the table. He tried to shove it off the table onto the floor, but it wouldn't budge. Sherlock stared at the book, puzzled and tried again, but even putting all his effort into it, he could only move the book so far.

His brow furrowed in annoyance and confusion. He had no trouble picking up books at home. What was it about this one that was so different? Instead, he reached for a pen on the desk but with the same results. It was like trying to move something that had been super glued down. Sherlock groaned in frustration. How was he supposed to let John know he was here if he couldn't even move a bloody book?

He took in a sharp breath as the realisation dawned on him. 'John,' he thought. "You're what's different," he spoke aloud, peering at the blonde man in the chair. "I can't move things in front of you as easily as I can when I'm alone."

Another idea began to tug at the corners of his mind and Sherlock floated around to the other side of the flat, behind John's back. He lifted a notepad from beside the phone effortlessly and smiled satisfactorily. Then he dropped it onto the ground with a loud thud.

John jumped in his chair and whipped around to look at the notepad on the floor. He tilted his head curiously to the side as he watched it.  
"What the hell?" he murmured to himself. "How'd that get there?"

Sherlock grinned to himself. Finally something was going to plan.

As John gazed unsurely at the notepad lying on the floor, Sherlock lifted John's cane from beside him and set it across the room. He hoped John would pick up on the symbolism, subtle as it was, and realise that Sherlock was alluding to their first night together in the flat when Sherlock had proved to John that his limp was psychosomatic. He didn't have high hopes for that, but it was guaranteed that John would notice his cane moving five feet away from where he had left it.

John turned back around in his chair, a confused look still on his face. The confusion only deepened as he saw the cane sitting across the room.

"What the -?" he trailed off, glaring at the cane. "I left that over here," John said, shaking his head slightly.

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You need something to distract you, mate," he muttered to himself, lifting a book off the coffee table and flicking the reading lamp beside him on. He settled down into his chair, trying to read the book but the words he read all seemed nonsensical to him. It might as well have been written in Chinese for all the good John was getting from it.

Sherlock glided over behind John and peered over his shoulder at the book. He leaned closer, trying to get a better look and the reading lamp started to flicker.

Both Sherlock and John's heads turned towards the light together with equally bewildered expressions.

Sherlock moved back and the lamp stopped flickering. Intrigued, he reached a hand out towards it again and immediately it started blinking again. Sherlock stretched his hand out further, gently touching the light and the bulb blew. He pulled his hand away and John cursed under his breath.

"Bloody thing," he muttered angrily, switching it off.

Sherlock made a note to stay well away from John's laptop. He didn't want it to short circuit as well.

"That's it, I need to go for a walk," John decided, getting fed up with the random things that were happening in front of him. He kept trying to tell himself it was the grief making him see and hear things that he wished were Sherlock. Maybe a walk would clear his head, although he wouldn't go very far now that his limp had made a comeback.

"No, wait!" Sherlock called anxiously, not wanting John to leave the flat when things had been going so well. Sherlock ran across the flat and slammed the door shut, hoping John would get the message.

John was startled as he heard footsteps running across the wooden floor. He listened apprehensively as they made their way to the door and jumped as the door shut with a bang. He could feel his heart rate elevating and his breath quickening a little as he watched. There was nobody there, so how had he heard footsteps? And who had closed his door? None of the windows were open so it wasn't a draught. John sat where he was, perplexed by what he had just witnessed.

Sherlock knew that John still had no idea that he was the one who was behind all the strange activity. He needed to find a way of letting John know it was him, before the man thought he was crazed or that his apartment was haunted. By something other than Sherlock anyway.

He ran to a wall and began hammering out a rhythm, hoping that John would understand it and wasn't too grief stricken to miss the message.  
He tapped 'Dot, dash, dash, dash – Dash, dash, dash - Dot, dot, dot, dot - Dash, dot,' spelling out John's name in Morse code. He repeated the pattern over and over, pleading with John to understand.

He could see John staring in bewilderment at the wall, trying to make sense of his situation.

"Please," Sherlock begged, continuing his tapping.

Slowly, John began to distinguish a pattern to the taps. It sounded familiar and had a regular rhythm, as if someone was tapping out a beat or a message repeatedly. He closed his eyes and listened carefully to the beat, his mouth falling open in shock as he realised what was being spelt.

"John," he whispered to himself. "John," he called out to the empty apartment. "You're spelling John!" he cried.

Sherlock stopped tapping and sighed in relief.

"Wait!" John called out as the tapping stopped. "Who are you?" he asked, feeling like an idiot talking to the empty flat. He knew this must all be in his imagination, but at that very moment, he didn't care. It was a welcome relief from everything that he had suffered through the past few days and he didn't care how insane it was as long as it distracted him. He felt like he better understood why Sherlock had always needed a case now; he had needed the distraction also.

Sherlock took a deep breath and began tapping a new pattern.

'Dot, dot, dot – Dot, dot, dot, dot - Dot - Dot, dash, dot – Dot, dash, dot, dot – Dash, dash, dash – Dash, dot, dash, dot – Dash, dot, dash.'  
He kept beating out the same pattern again and again, giving John time to catch it all.

John felt sick as he listened to the new code. It couldn't be. He must be imagining this. His chest constricted and his head swirled as he listened to the unmistakable word, being spelt over and over.

Sherlock.

"Sherlock?" he whispered quietly, his voice breaking as he said the name. "Is that – is it really you?" John whispered feeling tears gathering in his eyes.

The tapping changed again. This time there were only three letters.

Yes.

"Jesus," he muttered to himself. "I'm mad. I'm bloody completely mad!" he screamed into the apartment. "You're dead!" he yelled into the air. "You went and jumped off a fucking building and you killed yourself! There is no way that can be you! I saw you!" he yelled furiously.

Sherlock began frantically tapping his name again, desperately trying to get John to believe him. The tapping became louder and louder as Sherlock began thumping his fist against the wall, silently pleading with John to believe him. John covered his ears, squeezing his head, trying to blank out the sound but it just kept getting louder and louder.

"All right, all right, fine!" he burst out lividly. "If you're Sherlock, go ahead and fucking prove it!"

The tapping on the wall stopped. John waited patiently for a sign, taking deep breaths and trying to convince himself that he wasn't a lunatic.

Behind him, he heard a page being ripped out of a notebook and watched as it fluttered down in front of him.

He picked it up and laughed cruelly. "A page? That's your sign? Sherlock was one of the most dramatic people I know – he shot walls when he was bored for Christ's sake and all you can come up with is one shitty page?"

Sherlock remained silent, waiting for John to notice.

John chuckled darkly at the page and was about to scrunch it up when he noticed writing on it. He brought the page closer and felt a lump form in his throat as he read the words.

One more miracle, just for you, John.

John's breath became hitched in his throat as he struggled to fight back tears. "You bastard," he whispered softly to the apartment. "It is you. And you were listening?" he asked, not sure whether he should be ecstatic or enraged.

John heard the word 'yes' being tapped onto his desk and he let out a choked sound. Then he sighed and shook his head, feeling his anger taking over his original shock.

"What do you want with me? You went and jumped off a fucking building and now you're just going to come back? You can't do that Sherlock! You made the choice to kill yourself and you didn't think how it would affect any of us. You should see the state of poor Mrs Hudson, or Molly, even Mycroft's upset, although you'd never believe that. And me. I was your friend, you dick, and you just went off and killed yourself? Did you even think how this would affect me? My bloody limp is back and I can hardly walk ten metres without that fucking thing," he gestured angrily to his cane.

Another page was torn out of the book and fluttered into John's lap.

Sorry. Need to talk.

"Right," John scoffed, glaring at the empty air in front of him. "Well, go ahead. Write down your little note on the page. Go for it. I'm waiting," he said sarcastically.

Another page.

Difficult.

"It's difficult for you to write or you're just too much of a fucking coward to say what you have to?" John sneered.

Another message.

To write.

"Well, at least that's something," John rolled his eyes. "So do it some other way. Talk to me. I'm sure you'll figure out something since you hardly ever shut up when you got going."

Sherlock tore out another page.

Been trying. You don't hear.

All this writing was tiring Sherlock out. It took a lot of effort to move the pen and paper with John in the room, even when he wasn't looking at them.

"Well, what do you want me to do?" John muttered angrily. "It's hardly my fault."

Both men paused as they tried to think of a solution. John was lost in thought as another page fluttered down into his lap. This one only had two words written on it.

Ouija board.


	5. Chapter 5

John spent the rest of the evening crafting a homemade Ouija board. He wrote out the letters of the alphabet, number 0-9 and hello and goodbye onto a flat piece of cardboard he had found in his flat. He figured it didn't really matter since Sherlock wanted to talk to him.

They waited until it was ebony black outside and John turned off all the lights in his apartment, lighting candles for the only source of light.

He set the board out on the floor and put some of Sherlock's belongings that he had retrieved from the flat around the board. The research he had done said it helped to have personal items near if you wanted to speak to someone in particular.

He had Sherlock's violin and his skull both sitting beside the board. He had thought about bringing the deerstalker but decided that Sherlock might huff and refuse to talk if he did, so John left it behind.

John placed his homemade planchette on the letter G; apparently that's where it started. He placed his fingers on it and looked across the board to where he hoped Sherlock was sitting.

"Ready?" John asked, half-smiling nervously.

Sherlock tapped out 'yes' on the desk and John nodded.

"Okay, it said to start with an opening ritual – a prayer, a welcome or even trinkets. I've got your stuff here already, so emm, welcome, I guess," John shrugged feeling like a complete moron. "And we only welcome positive energy into this flat," he added unsurely.

Sherlock laughed as he watched John becoming embarrassed by the situation.

"Okay," John said, trying to move on quickly. "Sherlock, can you answer me?" he asked.

Sherlock leaned forward and easily directed the planchette to yes.

"Good," John nodded. "Easier than writing or Morse?"

Sherlock again answered yes.

"Right, so, uh, you wanted to tell me something?" John asked.

The planchette again moved to yes and Sherlock sighed.

"This could take a while," he said in a deadpan voice, rolling his eyes, but John's mouth fell open and his eyes widened.

"Did – did you just talk?" he asked in disbelief.

"Why, did you hear?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

"Uhh, yeah," John muttered in shock. "Wow, okay. I can hear you."

"Thank God," Sherlock sighed. "I've been talking to you for days. It was extremely frustrating."

"Glad I didn't hear it then," John joked.

Sherlock scowled at John, forgetting that he couldn't see him.

"So how come I can hear you now?" John asked curiously.

"It must be something to do with the Ouija board opening the veil between the mortal world and the paranormal world," Sherlock ventured.

"Makes sense I guess," John mused. "So what did you need to tell me that was so important?"

"I needed to tell you that I'm sorry," Sherlock stated. "I had figured out Moriarty's plan and had come up with one of my own to counteract it. You see, if I didn't jump off the building, his men were going to shoot you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. I had it all set up so that I could fall and the homeless network were going to splash me in fake blood and take me away so that the world would think I was dead. That way you could all live and I would be free to untangle Moriarty's web," he explained.

"But something went wrong, obviously," he sighed, "And I died. I wasn't supposed to. I was going to come back eventually and explain it all to you, tell you that you were right and Moriarty was real and I wasn't a fake. But I guess that didn't work out too well. I didn't mean to do this. This wasn't the plan," he said sadly.

"And now I need you to untangle the web, John. I can't do it anymore, but I can give you instructions on what to do and where to go if you'll do it for me. And I need you to tell Mrs Hudson and Lestrade and Molly and even Mycroft that I'm sorry and I need you to tell them this story. But above all, I need you to accept my apology, because I didn't mean to do this to you. I'm sorry," he finished.

"I forgive you, Sherlock," John whispered, his voice cracking in emotion. "I'm sorry your plan didn't work and I'm sorry you died and I'm even sorrier for yelling at you, but I thought you had chosen this. Oh Christ," he choked. He took a deep breath to compose himself and continued.

"And of course I'll do that for you. I'll tell them all and I'll take that fucker's web down. Just tell me how."

Sherlock smiled. "Thank you."

"No problem, mate," John grinned back.

Sherlock made John take the notepad and a pen and spent the next twenty minutes or so dictating to him, telling him precisely how to rid the world of Moriarty's crime web. When he had finished, he told John that he had to close the board and John did, albeit reluctantly.

But as he closed the board, something strange happened. Slowly, Sherlock materialised in front of John and John gasped, leaning back against his chair in surprise.

"Sher- I – I can…see you," he stammered in amazement.

Sherlock looked at John and laughed giddily. "One last look," he smiled sadly.

"What?" John asked confusedly.

"My guardian angel's here, John. He allowed you to see me one last time before he takes me to Heaven. After I leave the flat tonight, I won't be coming back to earth," he explained gently.

"No, but – you can't," John protested. "You can't just leave again!"

"I could only stay until all my business was finished. You're going to rid the world of James Moriarty's crimes and I've apologised to you and told you everything so that you aren't left angry or confused for the rest of your life. There's nothing left for me to do here," he answered.

"What about friends or family?" John choked out.

"If people stayed just for those, no one would ever leave," Sherlock shrugged. "It's fine. We'll meet again one day. Goodbye, John," he grinned and waved at John before a golden light enveloped him and he disappeared in front of John's eyes.

John stared at the spot where moments ago Sherlock had been standing, completely motionless, awestruck by what he had just witnessed.

Then he smiled to himself and mumbled, "Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes."


End file.
